


so glad (we've almost made it)

by starkmccall



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, Reunions, some minor jaime/brienne and arya/gendry, some serious fudging of the logistics of cleaning up after a war this large
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 17:36:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18665155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkmccall/pseuds/starkmccall
Summary: "They stand together, not quite in a huddle, and Sansa registers dimly that though she doesn't like to feel as if she needs anyone, these three are all that she would ever truly need.The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives, her father’s voice whispers in her head, and it reassures her that even after all this time, she can still recall the sound of his voice."Some post-war reunions, and Sansa and Tyrion getting to talk.





	so glad (we've almost made it)

**Author's Note:**

> first of all the title is from everybody wants to rule the world by tears for fears, which is a) one of my favourite songs b) one of the only songs i could immediately think of that doesn't have any allusions to romance. i want it made super clear that sansa and tyrion's relationship and interactions are not meant to be romantic in any way, and if you want them to be Please Don't Interact
> 
> essentially i was just thinking about the starks and also tyrion and sansa's conversations in ep 3 and then i blacked out and two hours later this appeared. so. here we go i guess. i kno there is likely a lot of shit i have missed/left out/aspects of the general world of ASOIAF i have gotten wrong or missed so sorry for that also. i have never written these characters before so hopefully they're most in character anyway have fun thanks for reading etc etc

The most jarring thing that hits her once she exits the crypt is the smell.

 

The sight, of course, is terrible; the countless stacks of bodies and bones which litter the grounds of the place she grew up, the place she sees as her only home, will be an image which remains with her until the day she dies. But she’s seen death before, seen it befall those she’s loved, and those she’s hated, and those she’s never known. She’s never - smelt it. It isn’t exactly pleasant. Tyrion’s wrinkled nose indicates that he’s thinking much the same.

 

Regardless, she inhales deeply, and though it makes her feel as if she’s tasting the blood and the dirt and the shit it’s impossibly better than the suffocating atmosphere of the crypt. It feels foolish, now, that they hid from a man who can raise the dead in a place typically only populated by the dead, but that’s no matter. It’s over now. They’ve won.

 

“Jaime.” She hears from beside her, Tyrion’s voice nothing more than a broken whisper. “Jaime!” He’s louder now, but no less broken. He starts helplessly scanning the courtyard for his brother, and Sansa is suddenly immobilised with fear when she thinks about the fate of her own family. Arya, who would never back down from a challenge, even if it came at the cost of her own life. Jon, who is stupid, and brave, and stupidly brave. Bran, who they left in the Godswood as bait, for God's sake. Theon, who was left defending him. She almost wants to close her eyes, as if she can convince herself that if she doesn’t look she’ll never see that the worst has happened.

 

“Tyrion!” Sansa has never seen anyone’s head snap up so fast as Tyrion’s does. She looks to the source of the voice too, and sees Jaime Lannister, looking as far from the Golden Lion as he ever possibly has. He’s running towards his brother, and walking behind him - Brienne, her hand on the back of Podrick’s neck like she’s holding the scruff of a kitten. Sansa is hit with such a wave of relief she feels as if she has just been physically struck. They make eye contact, and Brienne doesn’t smile, but the relief she feels at seeing Sansa is palpable all the same

 

Jaime has reached them at this point, and nearly skids on his knees in an effort to kneel and fold his brother into a hug. They cling to each other, shuddering, and Sansa is reminded of Castle Black, of the near tunnel vision she had on Jon, when she thought he was the only true family she had left. She sees Jaime’s face turn into the side of Tyrion’s, either to whisper something in his ear or to kiss his cheek, before he pulls back.

 

“You look like shit.” Tyrion says, with nowhere near the level of snark he would normally possess.

 

“So do you.” Jaime responds, looking like he’s about to start crying.

 

Brienne and Podrick have made their way over to them too, and Sansa takes Brienne’s hands in her own. She doesn’t know what to say, exactly. Theirs has not always been a relationship made of words. She simply nods at Brienne, the corners of her mouth turned up slightly, and Brienne nods back.

 

“How did you make it?” Tyrion asks, incredulously. Jaime is standing again, shoulder pressed against Brienne’s which. Well. Sansa was aware that they were _close,_ after all.

 

“I owe it all to _Ser_ Brienne.” Jaime replies, and that _is_ certainly new. Sansa isn’t entirely sure of how that came to be, but far be it from her to question it. If there was anyone truly deserving of the title, it is Brienne. The emphasis Jaime puts on the title isn’t teasing, or cruel; it is deeply proud. Some may also say enamoured. He’s looking at her as if he’s only just realised she’s still alive. Brienne is resolutely not looking at him.

 “We are both, as always, within your debt, Ser.”

Brienne looks as if she’s about to protest, but Sansa cuts in before she is able to. “I believe we are all somewhat indebted to Brienne and her bravery.” This gifts her with a rare, small but bright smile from Brienne, and it eats away at the impossible coldness held in Sansa’s chest, just a little. “If you’ll excuse me, I need -”, and she knows, technically, that she should say anything else here. She needs to be the Lady of Winterfell, she needs to take care of her people, she needs to start organising cleaning up, she needs to start taking stock of supplies, she needs to do any number of things. Her knowing she must do this does not stop her from saying what she says next. “- I need to find my family.”

 

“Of course.” Tyrion replies, and his hand finds hers. He squeezes it once, firmly, before letting go; a reassurance. The gentleness and the thoughtfulness of his gesture and the look on his face helps to quell the rising nausea in her stomach, the fear that she will not find who she is looking for.

 

“Well, you won’t have to look very far.” Jaime comments, and he doesn’t sound sarcastic, but rather - pleased, for her. An impossible kindness, from a man with whom she has had exactly one interaction with before. His eyes have been torn from Brienne, and are instead trained on a spot just over her shoulder. She turns to see that same spot, and an impossible image meets her eyes. Jon’s pushing Bran in his chair, Arya beside them both, one hand on Bran’s shoulder.

 

Arya’s eyes meet hers, and Sansa’s doesn’t even realise she’s ran until they’ve met in the middle with a hug, arms tight like vices around each other. Arya is, like the rest of them, covered in blood and shit and who knows what else, and Sansa couldn’t care less. All she cares about is her sister safe in her arms, their brothers watching on behind them.

 

“I did it.” Arya whispers, face pressed into the joint between Sansa’s throat and shoulder. “I killed him.” Sansa blanches for just a second, but she isn’t shocked, just surprised.

 

“I did what you told me.” Sansa replies, “I stuck them with the pointy end.” It seems so irrelevant, now. Arya’s just told her that she killed the Night King, that she’s put an end to the army of the dead, the enemy that has haunted them for however long it’s now been, but nevertheless Arya pulls away in surprise, leaving her hands on Sansa’s shoulders.

 

“You had to kill?” She asks, and she looks - sad. As if after all that Sansa has been through, this is somehow the worst.

 

“The crypts.” Sansa responds, and then quickly realises that will likely not make any sense. “The dead - they rose. I couldn’t - I couldn’t save everyone.”

 

The look in Arya’s eyes turns to one of pure horror, before they soften slightly. “You saved yourself.” She pulls Sansa back in, for a short but fierce hug. “That’s all that matters to me.”

 

“And you killed the Night King.” Sansa’s still trying to process that particular bit of information. Arya shrugs at her once she’s pulled back again, trying and failing to act casual. It’s okay. They’ll have time to discuss, and process, and heal. They’ll have time, now. She looks over Arya’s head to see Jon, and it’s as if the last few days have been entirely erased. He has returned to her again, against impossible odds, and he may be an idiot but he’s still her brother. He’s still her family.

 

She goes to him, because he will not go to her. She’s noticed this about him. He will often wait for her to come into his space, rather than potentially intrude upon hers. He lets her to set her own boundaries, make her own rules about how she chooses to exist. It’s a small, crucial act of decency, after all she has been struck with. They hug, and like Arya he too is covered, head to toe, in muck. Again, she could not care less. He’s shaking, she realises, and she remembers his words, that first night at Castle Black. He’s tired. She is, too.

 

They break apart, eventually, and she hugs Bran too. Even though he is not Bran anymore, not really, it still feels necessary. The part of her that loves him, the part of her which ached for so long at the thought of his loss, will never die. They’re Starks. They will not abandon each other, no matter the cost or toll.

 

They stand together, not quite in a huddle, and Sansa registers dimly that though she doesn't like to feel as if she _needs_ anyone, these three are all that she would ever truly need. _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives_ , her father’s voice whispers in her head, and it reassures her that even after all this time, she can still recall the sound of his voice.

 

Whatever warmth she gained from this reunion is abruptly shattered when she remembers: Theon. “Theon.” She says, unwittingly, and she doesn’t want to ask where he is, for fear that she’ll hear the answer. Nobody needs to speak to tell her. The matching looks on Arya and Jon’s faces say enough, and something in her heart cracks in two. Tears unwillingly fill her eyes, and she almost tries to stop them, before realising that she can’t be bothered. Theon, who was for all intents and purposes her brother too. Theon, who saved her. Theon, who was the only one who could ever truly understand what it was like, to live under the curse of Ramsay Bolton. Theon, one of the few she had ever and would ever trust with her life.

 

“What is dead may never die.” Bran states, in that eerie tone of his.

 

“What is dead may never die.” They all repeat, solemnly. A sort of prayer, almost, for the man who betrayed them and loved them and fought for them all the same.

 

Eventually, they realise there are things that must be done. They’re surrounded by noise, by calls and searches for family members and friends. Arya sees someone, a man whose name Sansa can’t recall but knows works down in the forges, and unabashedly runs towards him. Jon’s brow furrows in confusion.

 

“I didn’t know they knew each other.” He says, as Arya wraps her arms around the man's neck. His eyes close as his arms circle around her waist, and Sansa can’t deny it’s deeply odd to see Arya that close to someone who isn’t family. Given Arya soons pulls back slightly so she can kiss him firmly on the mouth, Sansa is suddenly and overwhelmingly glad that he is not, in fact, family. Jon’s eyebrows look as if they’re about to disappear into his hairline. Sansa lets out a laugh which sounds more like a glorified cough, but it is still one of the happiest expressions she has made in days. Jon meets her eyes, and they smile at each other, and it feels like hope. Hope that they can still be happy. Hope that they can still be a family. Hope that these wars, and the politics that come with them, will not tear them all apart as she constantly fears.

 

A number of things happen after that. Daenerys returns, walking side by side with Grey Worm, and she looks so devastated Sansa can feel nothing but sorrow for her, and for whoever it is that she has lost. Missandei appears from nowhere, runs towards them both, and checks each of them individually, cupping their faces and examining their bodies for injuries. She looks to see Jaime quickly slip away from Tyrion, bringing Brienne with him, when he realises that Daenerys, now arm-in-arm with Missandei, is heading towards his brother. Jon does not make a move to go over to her, and Sansa raises an eyebrow. He shakes his head at her. “She won’t want me there right now,” and “Jorah. She must have lost Jorah.”

 

Jorah reminds her of Lyanna, reminds her of the great number of dead they still have to deal with. It seems cruel and cold to phrase it like that, as if these people, who bravely fought and died, who had lived and breathed just a day ago, are now nothing more than issues to be dealt with, but she cannot allow herself to think of them in any other way. If she does, it’ll overwhelm her.

 

That night, once the dust has settled and the grounds have mostly been cleared, Sansa returns to her room. (Jon and Sansa had reverted back into their roles, ordering those available this way and that. Daenerys and her party had disappeared inside, and Sansa was almost grateful. She doesn’t think she could have handled it, even now, if she had to start deferring control within her own home, surrounded by the dead bodies of her own people.) She changes, washes her face and neck with water from the basin in her room. It didn’t feel right to ask for a whole bath, not right now. She’s also alone as again, it didn’t feel right to have people do menial jobs like this for her when she is perfectly capable of doing them herself.

 

She is clean and changed when she hears a knock on her door. It’s surprising, but not exactly unheard of. It may be Arya, or Jon, or Brienne. She opens the door to find none of them, but instead Tyrion.

 

“Lord Tyrion.” She says, face neutral.

“Lady Sansa.” He replies, and the formality seems odd, given just this morning they believed they were about to die side by side. “May I come in? I would like - I would like to have a word.”

 

“Of course.” She says, and finds that she genuinely means it. Despite her exhaustion, she would still quite enjoy speaking to him.

 

“I know this isn’t exactly proper,” Tyrion starts, walking into the room as she walks back to her seat at her dresser. “But I figured, given the circumstances, propriety wouldn’t exactly be the first thing on people’s minds.” Sansa thinks of Arya kissing Gendry, whose name Sansa know nows and has committed to memory, in front of a whole courtyard of people, and smiles.

 

“No,” She replies, “I doubt it will be.”

 

Tyrion clasps his hands together. He looks slightly nervous. It’s an odd look on him. “I just wished to say - I’m sorry, if I made you uncomfortable this morning. I know that our marriage and the circumstances around it, even if you say it was the best of all of yours, was still awful for you. I do not -” he winces. “I want us to be friends. I would like it if we were friends, especially now. Especially now that you actually have choice in who you talk to, and who you want to be around. But I do understand that seeing me - it may not exactly spark the best memories for you.”

 

“I want to be friends too.” Sansa replies, and again, finds that she genuinely means it. It isn’t through a sense of debt, or owing; it has taken her a while, but she has realised that the basic respect and decency that Tyrion has treated her with should be expected, not something to be praised. She does genuinely enjoy his company, and genuinely believes he enjoys hers, too. “But my response was not meant as an insult to your queen. It was a fact. Our split loyalties - they will prove trying, time and time again.”

 

“Perhaps they will.” Tyrion replies, “They likely already have. But at least I know you _have_ loyalties. Growing up with Cersei as a sister - you can understand why that would be a trait I value.” The mention of Cersei’s name twists her stomach, as it does, as it probably always will. Tyrion seems to realise that, somehow, and he bows his head somewhat apologetically.

 

Sansa steels herself. “You were the only one in that place.” She still cannot bring herself to name it, even after all this time. “The only one in that place to ever see me, and understand me.”

 

“I don’t think anyone could ever truly understand you, Lady Sansa.” Tyrion replies, and she knows he does not mean it as an insult. “But I’m glad you have given me the chance to try.” She smiles at him, and he smiles at her, and it does truly feel as if this is nothing more than a moment of kindness between two friends. It strikes her, how much he knows her, how he knows her in ways a very select few have ever and will ever get to know. It’s not quite the quiet but proud knowing she shares with her family, the understated understanding between her and Brienne. It’s the understanding you get from seeing someone in some of the worst parts of their life. It’s the knowledge you get from comforting someone when you think you’re both about to die. It is something she thinks no one but them could ever understand.

“Thank you, Tyrion.” She says, and the corner of his mouth quirks up at the lack of use of his title. She can almost hear her mother gasping at the lack of formality of it all, in shock at this behaviour coming from the daughter she raised to be as ladylike as possible. Then again, her mother did also once go against the direct orders of her son, the king, and freed a prisoner of war in order to save her daughters, so she potentially wasn’t as bothered with formality as once thought.

 

Tyrion nods at her. “I’ll let you rest now. I think we all need a good night's sleep.”

 

“Let’s hope at least one of us can get one.” Sansa replies unthinkingly, reminded of how wracked her sleep has been with nightmares throughout the years. Despite this, her eyelids begin to feel unusually heavy. “Goodnight.”

  
“Goodnight.” He responds, leaving her with one last smile. She gets into bed, and her last thought before she gives in to sleep is of her siblings, safe and peaceful in their own beds. There is much more to come, she knows, before this is truly over. She doesn’t know if there will even _be_ a time where it is truly over. But now, all she can do is rest, and wait to see another dawn.


End file.
